


A Critique of Abstract Minimalism

by cyankelpie



Series: Ineffable Rivalry [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aromantic Gabriel, Best Friends, Gabriel and Beelzebub stationed on Earth, Gen, Modern Art, Museums, Neither of them understand abstract art, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Platonic Relationships, Post-Apocalypse, Romance-repulsed Gabriel, So instead of trying they roast it mercilessly, Valentine's Day, but Platonic - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:20:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22727539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyankelpie/pseuds/cyankelpie
Summary: Valentine’s Day is an awkward time for Gabriel, since he’s never felt that kind of love and recently found out that isn’t true of all angels. He wasn’t planning to leave his apartment today, until his mortal-enemy-turned-friend Beelzebub convinced him to go make fun of abstract art with them. Now he’s stuck explaining the exact thing he was trying to avoid thinking about.(AU where Gabriel and Beelzebub were stationed on Earth since the beginning instead of Aziraphale and Crowley.)
Relationships: Beelzebub & Gabriel (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Rivalry [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579288
Comments: 16
Kudos: 27
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	A Critique of Abstract Minimalism

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot leave this AU alone, so I guess now it has a Valentine’s Day special. Gabriel is asexual and aromantic, Beelzebub identifies as who gives a shit, and they are best friends who hate abstract art.
> 
> If you haven’t read previous works in this series (I couldn’t blame you, there’s a lot of words), here’s the summary of relevant events: Gabriel and Beelzebub were the Earthside agents of their respective sides, and developed a rivalry that, over the years turned into grudging respect, and then friendship. Post-(Not)Armageddon, Aziraphale and Crowley were sent to Earth to figure out how to kill them, decided they’d rather just retire there instead, and also fell in love. Gabriel works out all the time, and Beelzebub is a beekeeper. Gabriel once filibustered God to save the bees because Beelzebub was depressed. It was a whole thing.
> 
> The opinions expressed herein belong to the characters, not the author! Apologies to any fans/artists of abstract art or free jazz, and an extra big apology to Agnes Martin. Also, nobody here is pretending that Gabriel and Beelzebub are nice people. Please don’t spend Valentine’s Day the way that they do.
> 
> Warning for mention of feeling broken because of being aromantic (which is quickly remedied because what kind of writer do you think I am?).

Gabriel was in the middle of his morning crunches when Beelzebub showed up. There was nobody there on number fifty-seven, and then when Gabriel sat up on number fifty-eight they were standing there looking at him. “You know you don’t actually need to work out, right?”

“Christ—Don’t do that.” He scrambled onto his feet. “What do you want?”

“Rude,” said Beelzebub. “Just dropping in to say hi. Why aren’t you out on your usual jog?”

Beelzebub had taken to appearing out of nowhere at random points on Gabriel’s morning route and shouting stuff at him to make him trip. It had only worked once, when they called out, “Did it hurt?” and Gabriel fell flat on his face, twisted around, and shrieked, “No!” while Beelzebub keeled over in laughter. He wasn’t out today because, for various reasons, he didn’t feel like leaving his apartment today. “Wasn’t feeling it today.”

“You’ve haven’t missed a jog in over a hundred years,” said Beelzebub. “You’re starting to become a New York legend. They call you the Ridiculously Fit Immortal.”

“You don’t know every time I’ve jogged in the past century,” said Gabriel. This was hardly the first time he had missed a day, particularly during this time of year. “What’s up?”

“There’s an exhibition on at the Guggenheim,” said Beelzebub. “Abstract minimalism.”

Gabriel groaned. “I hate abstract minimalism.”

Beelzebub pointed at the row of grey squares he had framed on his wall.

“That’s different,” he said. “Those actually mean something.”

“You wanna go walk around the museum and make fun of what they call art?” asked Beelzebub.

That did sound like fun, but he hesitated. “Does it have to be today?”

“What’s wrong with today?”

He didn’t want to say it. “Nothing. Just—Short notice.”

“Like you’ve got a busy schedule,” said Beelzebub. “Come on. They’ve got Agnes Martin.”

“That _bitch_.” Gabriel snapped his fingers to change into something less casual than workout clothes. “Alright, I’m in.”

Gabriel had never liked the Guggenheim much. It was an interesting building, he had to admit, but the stark white walls and cold lighting always put a knot of anxiety in his stomach. It took him a while to realize that it was because it reminded him of heaven. They were both full of pretentious assholes, too.

There was something therapeutic, though, about going into that cold, white building with Beelzebub and voicing his thoughts on the art aloud, instead of pretending to be impressed by, for instance, a pencil-drawn grid on a white canvas. “What is that?” he said, waving a hand at it. “What exactly is that supposed to be?”

“ _White flower_ ,” read Beelzebub, bending to look at the label.

“What the hell kind of flower was she using for reference?”

“At least this one has the grace to be untitled,” said Beelzebub, moving on to another, similar grid. “She didn’t know what this was about, either.”

“White flower,” Gabriel muttered, scowling and wandering over to something marginally more interesting, or at least, less oppressively structured than Agnes Martin’s pencil-grids. He stopped as he got a closer look. “Those are numbers, aren’t they. They’re just…He just filled up the canvas with numbers.”

Beelzebub came to look. “What’s he counting up to?”

Gabriel shrugged. “How much he can sell this painting for?” He looked around. “Oh, God, there’s more of them.”

“Let’s go over here,” said Beelzebub, moving away from the numbers. They looked just a tiny bit unsettled.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Are you having an emotional reaction to a piece of abstract art, demon?”

It wouldn’t have been the first time, not that Beelzebub would ever admit it. Last time they went to the MoMA, Gabriel had lost track of the demon and eventually found them standing motionless in front of a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Joan Miró. Gabriel walked up and said, “Oooh, a _triangle,_ and some _circles,_ ” and Beelzebub snapped out of some trance, muttered something rude about surrealists, and rushed through the rest of the floor.

Beelzebub was looking at another Agnes Martin, this one with very, very pale stripes of blue. “Gabe. Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Oh my God,” he said. “Are those colors?”

“Am I having a stroke?”

“Agnes, you madwoman! The world isn’t ready!”

“What subject merits such fearless choices?” Beelzebub looked at the label, and snorted. “ _Loving love_. Seasonal, at least. Hey,” they called over to a couple who was walking through the exhibit hand-in-hand. “You guys are on the wrong painting. This one’s way more romantic. If those blue stripes don’t mean anything to you, you’re probably doing something wrong and should just break up now.”

“Hey, look at this one,” said Gabriel, moving on. He ended up in front of a textured white canvas. “ _White cube_.” He looked at it for a second and felt his eye twitch. “It’s not even a cube!”

“Check that out.” Beelzebub gestured to a piece on the opposite wall. “Bright orange. I thought this was an exhibit on minimalism. It’s getting a little wild in here.”

They were both being pretty loud, and the museum guard was stepping towards them with a warning look. “Oh, what are you gonna do, kick us out?” said Gabriel. “For all you know, this is performance art.”

A handful of heads belonging to people who looked like art students swiveled around. One looked at them for a moment, nodded to herself, and jotted something down in her notebook. Another pair started whispering intently.

“Oh, art expert at two o’clock.” Beelzebub nodded through a doorway, where a man appeared to be trying to explain a painting to a woman he was holding hands with. This involved a lot more gesticulating than was probably necessary, as the painting itself was a fairly uninteresting black canvas. Beelzebub tilted their head to signal Gabriel to follow them and headed towards them.

Gabriel hung back a little. He knew what Beelzebub was going for. During the handful of times they had been to art museums, they had developed a routine for when they spotted someone trying to explain a piece. One of them would completely undermine the in-progress explanation with an interpretation of their own, and then other would come over to agree wholeheartedly, as if they had never met and just happened to overhear. If executed well, this usually ended with the target thoroughly embarrassed in front of whoever they—well, _he_ , more often than not—were trying to impress. Beelzebub claimed this was very demonic, though Gabriel usually countered by pointing out that they had also rescued a few people from unfortunate dates along the way. The morality of it hardly mattered, now that they were both unemployed. It was just fun.

Today, though, Gabriel didn’t even want to look at another couple. He followed Beelzebub through the door hesitantly, then changed his mind and went to the opposite wall, where he pretended to be absorbed in some sort of weird stripey composition.

The art expert’s voice carried across the mostly-empty room. “…So it’s really so much more complex than just a black canvas. Look at how textured it is here. There’s so much turmoil in—”

Beelzebub, who was standing next to them, scoffed. “No, please,” they said after a short pause. “Go on.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, and then the man said, “I’m sorry, do you disagree?”

“I just think it’s cute that you’re trying to explain something so transcendent,” said Beelzebub. “But don’t let me stop you.”

“I…” The man looked flustered. He turned back to the woman. “So it’s, um…there’s actually a lot of activity in the…I’m sorry, if my interpretation is so ‘cute,’ what’s yours?”

Well, Beelzebub seemed to be getting along fine without him. Gabriel moved on to another weird stripey composition. There were a lot of them in here for some reason.

“Interpretation?” Beelzebub repeated. “You don’t ‘interpret’ this stuff. There’s no kernel of meaning. The piece _is_ the meaning. Look.” They gestured at the painting decisively as if that was all the argument they needed.

Gabriel heard a scribbling in the corner and turned to look. A handful of art students from the other room had trailed in after them and were now writing notes. Gabriel wondered how many term papers were going to include the phrase “the piece is the meaning” this semester. Beelzebub was actually a bit of a genius when it came to art, not that they would ever willingly admit it. They had complained once that Andy Warhol stole some of their ideas. Gabriel had his suspicions about the identity of Banksy, and while Beelzebub had never confirmed this, they had never denied it, either.

“That’s true,” said the man, sounding a little frantic as he tried to keep up. “That’s very true. But I also think there’s merit in—”

“Oh, please.” Beelzebub interrupted. “If you try to boil this down any further, you lose the whole thing. Just look at it. It hums with energy, yet it’s so contemplative.” Across the room, Gabriel fought down a snort. “How can you try to explain that to someone else, without bringing them here and having them stand in front of it themselves? Some things can only be experienced.”

The art students’ pens were flying across the pages of their notebooks now. Gabriel stared firmly at the weird stripes in front of him. This was probably the point at which he should come in and make some seemingly unrelated comment that happened to completely align with what Beelzebub had just said. But he also didn’t feel like turning around and seeing the couple holding hands. Right out in public, too—couldn’t they keep that in the privacy of their own homes? Had they no shame?

Beelzebub cleared their throat. When Gabriel ignored the sound, they said, “But I interrupted you. Please, carry on with your _interpretation_.” They appeared a minute later next to Gabriel. “Missed a line or two there, Gabe,” they muttered irritably.

“Yeah,” he said. “Uh, not really feeling it today.”

“What’s with you? You’re being weird. More than usual.”

Gabriel pursed his lips. “I didn’t want to leave my apartment today,” he admitted.

Beelzebub’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not an answer.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what day it is.”

Beelzebub looked at him flatly, blinked, checked their phone, and blinked again. They sighed, and snapped their fingers. The two of them appeared back in Beelzebub’s cabin. Beelzebub pulled out their one chair from the table and slumped into it. “Okay,” they said, fixing him with a dull stare. “It’s February fourteenth. And? Talk.”

Gabriel summoned a chair for himself and sat. “I don’t want to—Where did those come from?”

Beelzebub had pulled a heart-shaped box of chocolate out of Somebody-knew-where and tossed the lid on the floor. “I stole them from the guy who was lecturing.”

Fighting back a grimace, Gabriel snapped his fingers, and the heart-shaped lid turned into a tasteful floor lamp.

“What the hell is your problem?” asked Beelzebub, vanishing the floor lamp.

Gabriel rubbed his face with both hands. “It’s the stupid hearts,” he said into his palms. “They’re everywhere. I mean, it’s bad enough most of the year, but February—And _today_ , just—You can’t get away from them.”

Beelzebub still didn’t seem to understand. “And?”

“It’s this whole damn holiday!” Gabriel burst out. “A whole day just for romance, and I don’t—I can’t—”

Beelzebub’s eyebrows had risen a fraction of an inch, but they didn’t say anything.

Gabriel sighed, frustrated. “It’s like—You remember Greece? Old Greece, I mean. They had, like, seven different words for different kinds of love, right? And a bunch of them were between family, or friends, or parent-child relationships—All kinds of stuff.”

“They did like putting stuff in boxes,” muttered Beelzebub, who had spent a good while in ancient Greece as a philosopher just to undermine whatever Plato was teaching.

“Except somehow,” Gabriel went on, “humans got the idea that this— _eros_ , or romance, or whatever you want to call it—that’s what love is, now. That’s _it._ That’s the thing to aspire to. That’s supposed to be a fundamental part of the human experience, right? Every book and movie and TV show ever written keeps saying that. And I don’t—I don’t—I’ve never—” His hands were waving frantically in the air now. He let them drop. “I don’t think I _can_.”

Beelzebub was still just looking at him. “You never mentioned it before.”

“It didn’t used to bother me,” said Gabriel. “I mean, I’m not human, right? I’m not supposed to have ‘the human experience.’ I still don’t like seeing them, you know, holding hands and making eyes at each other and—” he grimaced, “—kissing, but it’s not something to worry about for myself. I’m an angel. I’m above those things.”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes a little. “Little full of yourself.”

“Well, demons were too, I thought. Same stock.” Gabriel laughed humorlessly. “But now Crowley and Aziraphale can’t go five seconds without touching or giving each other some gooey look—” He shuddered, slumping forward in his chair to look at his hands. “So I guess angels can feel that, after all. I’m just…missing that part.”

Beelzebub snorted. “You’re really basing your idea of a normal angel on Aziraphale?”

“It’s not just him,” said Gabriel. “Crowley, too. And Hastur and Ligur, from what you’ve told me.”

“Always thought there was something going on there,” muttered Beelzebub with a nod.

“And I’ve—I’ve _never_ felt all the things I was supposed to as an angel. I was never good at mercy, or compassion—”

“You worked for _Michael,_ ” Beelzebub interrupted. “If you want to talk about mercy and compassion.”

They had a fair point, but it was unrelated to the one he was trying to make. He wished he was sure enough of what he was trying to say to figure out how to express it. “And that—that all-encompassing love angels are supposed to have for all living things,” he said. “I just don’t think I have it. And definitely not romantic love, so that’s it, I guess. I’m an angel who can’t feel love.” He gave another empty laugh. “No wonder they fired me.”

“They didn’t fire you for that,” said Beelzebub.

“Well, maybe they should have.”

The demon sighed and rubbed their eyes with the palm of their hands. “Gabriel—That’s not even true.”

“What’s not true?”

“What do you call that?” Beelzebub pointed out the window. Their six beehives hummed with activity outside. “You gave me three of those. I know that can’t have been easy for you.”

Gabriel looked at the bees for a minute before he connected the dots of what Beelzebub was suggesting. “What,” he said, turning back, “you think I—” He was on his feet before he realized it. “No. No—Demon—” The more he thought about it, the angrier it made him. “Were you listening at all? I don’t _love_ you, Beelzebub. I like hanging out with you, and I didn’t like seeing you so down, so I tried to fix it. That’s all.”

Beelzebub sat there and waited for him to finish. “You know what that sounds like?” they said when they were done.

“What?”

“Philia.” When Gabriel gave them a blank stare, they rolled their eyes and held up their phone, open to a Wikipedia page. “‘Love between friends.’ One of the Greeks’ categories. I looked them up while you were talking.”

“Oh.” Gabriel sat back down. Maybe the demon had been listening.

“Of course you can still _love,_ Gabe,” said Beelzebub. “They didn’t even take that from demons in the Fall. So you’re aromantic. That’s not a big deal.”

“I’m definitely _not_ a romantic,” Gabriel exclaimed. “I just finished saying that.”

“No, _aromantic_.” Beelzebub paused. “Do you not know that word?”

Gabriel didn’t know that word. “Did you just make that up?” He couldn’t tell if Beelzebub was trying to make fun of him.

In answer, Beelzebub typed something into their phone, and Gabriel’s buzzed a second later. He opened the message, glanced at the demon, and then tapped the link to open a Wikipedia page. _An aromantic is a person who experiences little or no romantic attraction to others._ Gabriel read a few more lines and swallowed. He might have thought Beelzebub had miracled this page into existence on the spot, except that they didn’t look like they were joking. He swallowed and looked up. “It’s not just me?”

“There’s eight billion humans, and twenty million angels and demons,” said Beelzebub. “So, no, you’re not special.”

Gabriel put down the phone and took a deep breath. There were other people like him. Maybe some angels and demons did feel that kind of love, but there were also humans who didn’t. They’d made a whole word for it.

“Like I said, it’s not a big deal,” said Beelzebub. “You’re okay.”

Gabriel looked up. Beelzebub must know this word for a reason. “And…you?”

Beelzebub looked surprised. They blinked, looked down, and didn’t answer for a moment. “You know I don’t like labels.”

“Right.” Gabriel waved a hand. “Of course. ‘Some things can only be experienced.’”

“But I think we’re on the same page,” said Beelzebub. “As far as it’s relevant.”

Gabriel nodded and leaned back in his chair. “Good.”

Neither of them were sure what to say for a moment. “I had fun today,” Gabriel tried. It was true. He was finding it easier and easier to enjoy himself since becoming unemployed, and the same seemed to be true for Beelzebub. They’d looked like they were having such a good time at the Guggenheim. That had become much more common recently. “I, um…I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Me too.” Beelzebub picked up the box of chocolates, which, Gabriel noticed, was now rectangular. “You can go back to your apartment if you want,” they said. “Or you could come with me to ruin people’s dates. Stuff like giving the roses extra thorns, or maybe staging some exes bumping into each other…That’s how I usually spend Valentine’s Day. Once I paid an accordionist to play polka in the park all evening.”

“That’s awful,” said Gabriel, impressed.

“Thanks.”

“And that actually sounds really fun,” he added a moment later. “We, could, um…we could go to a jazz bar, and clap in the wrong places. Before the solo’s over. If we get enough people to join in, they’d have to end the solo anyway.”

__

Beelzebub nodded. “I could mess up the saxophone reeds. Or trip up the drummer so he gets the rhythm wrong.”

__

“Oh—Give them a massive tip and then ask them to play bebop,” said Gabriel, straightening. “I can’t think of anything less romantic than bebop.”

__

“Free jazz,” Beelzebub pointed out, raising their eyebrows.

__

Gabriel winced. He felt about the same about free jazz as he did about abstract minimalism. “We have to listen to it, too, though.”

__

“Fine, then. Bebop.” Beelzebub glanced at the clock. “It’s still pretty early. Back to the museum? We’d barely gotten to the second room, and I didn’t get a souvenir.”

__

“Didn’t get a—Is that why you walked out of the MoMA with a Jackson Pollock that one time?”

__

Beelzebub shrugged. “Just one of the little ones. They barely noticed.”

__

“It was all over the news!”

__

“Call the police, then. You wanna go or not?”

__

“Fine.” Gabriel got to his feet. “Let’s go back so you can get yourself a plain white canvas that you could easily have painted yourself.”

__

Beelzebub shrugged. “Why would I bother painting, when they have them sitting around in the Guggenheim where anyone could take them?”

__

“Don’t see why anyone would want to take them,” Gabriel grumbled.

__

“Now you’re getting it.” Beelzebub snapped their fingers, and they appeared back in the Guggehiem. “Come on. I was thinking a Kandinsky this time.”

__

__

It was probably the best Valentine’s Day Gabriel could remember. They embarrassed three more people at the Guggenheim, two of which had their dates ruined (who even went on a date to a modern art museum, anyway?). They got to mock most of the art pieces in the abstract minimalist exhibit before security finally threw them out. They caused some trouble in two fancy restaurants, including turning all the red and pink hearts into Halloween decorations one-by-one when nobody was looking and then waiting for people to notice. Then they proceeded to a jazz bar like they planned, where neither of them understood anything they heard and were sure to make that everybody else’s problem. “A pretty okay day, considering my expectations,” Gabriel said when they finally got thrown out of the jazz bar well after midnight. “Plus, I learned a new word.”

__

“That’s hardly worth writing in your diary,” said Beelzebub. “I imagine you learn a new word every day.”

__

“Rude,” Gabriel muttered. He was trying to be nice. And he knew all kinds of words.

__

Beelzebub looked up at the dark sky. “It’s late,” they said. “Past your bedtime, isn’t it? You’ll miss your morning run again.”

__

Gabriel checked the time. He didn’t need to sleep, but it was a good deal later than he usually liked going to bed.

__

“This was fun, though,” Beelzebub went on. “You, um…you wanna do it again nexzzzt year?”

__

Gabriel thought for a moment. “An anti-Valentine’s Day tradition. Yeah, I like that.”

__

Beelzebub cracked a grin. “Bet we can take down the entire holiday within the decade.”

__

“Nah, I don’t have anything against Valentine’s Day,” said Gabriel with a sigh. “Not really. It’s just—when’s do we celebrate other stuff? Like friends? Why isn’t there a Friends’ Day?”

__

“Hm.” The demon thought a moment, then shrugged. “Well. We have a day for it now, at least.”

__

Gabriel considered, then nodded. “I guess we do.”

__


End file.
